The Enemy
by bluecharlotte
Summary: He used to have nightmares. Then his life became one. But Regulus Black isn't going down without a fight. The story of R.A.B.'s redemption and the conflicting ideologies at its center.
1. Tom

"There is a bad person," he began slowly, quietly, enunciating every syllable, "just beneath the surface of every good one." He let his gaze wander around the room, looking at each person in turn, enjoying the tension in the air, the power at his fingertips, the authority on the tip of his tongue.

"Most people smother this monster if it makes an appearance, because surely it would get them rejected from society if they did not. Most people tell themselves that there is not something cold and calculating and unfeeling within them, because this idea scares them more than anything. A darker side to the human heart, made a shadow by the light of day? A monster lurking in the back of your consciousness that thinks _bad things_ and _accuses_ and _hates_, and is always _sneering_ out at the world? Preposterous. And yet somehow they are still afraid; does this mean that the monster isn't so preposterous after all? Perhaps. Perhaps the possibility, the _unknown, _is what makes it so _very_ frightening."

By now he had a faint smile on his lips and his eyes were as dark as coal as they searched the room for any who dared to disagree. He was quite a formidable figure for his fellows to look upon, standing before them like a prophet in his regal cloak.

"Most people are afraid of the unknown. Everyone wonders at some point about the creature that hides in the shadows and prowls on the blackest of nights, and they pretend that they don't believe. But a part of them does. And they are... _afraid_." He had a far off look as he finished, but suddenly his eyes focused again on those before him. _Are you afraid?_ his unfeeling gaze seemed to ask, challenging them to speak. But no one said a word, and satisfied with the captivation that he had caused, he continued:

"One of the greatest unknowns is us. What are we, really? Why are there so many criminals and crazies if we're all supposed to be good? What _darkness_ lingers in the human heart? To some extent, most people fear this... this ambiguity, this mystery. Most people, in secret, are just a _little_ afraid of themselves." He paused for emphasis, and suddenly his voice took on much more conviction:

"But _we_... we are not most people. We knew that the bad was there, and we saw that it wanted _very_ badly to reach the world. All that we did was let it out. We gave it room to breathe and grow within each of us, and it has flourished. It sneers and accuses and hates and darkens and suffocates and _kills_, always leaving filthy blood in its wake. It destroys the _enemy_, those who are unworthy, and leaves only us, the _pure_, behind. It makes us heroes as it works for the _greater good_. It gives us the power we rightfully deserve and makes us unstoppable. Because now that the monster is free to manifest itself in us..." he looked pointedly around the room and met the eyes of each and every one of the men and women present, relishing the fear in their eyes. "Now that it is free, there is no strange creature lurking in the dark. _We_ are the creature, _we_ are the unknown. And we have nothing left to fear."

He finished in a whisper, smiling coldly at his recruits. This was a moment he would look back on with pride. December 17th, 1977. This was Voldemort's true beginning.

"Who's with me?"


	2. Regulus

He used to have nightmares.

He would wake up screaming in the middle of the night, sitting up in bed involuntarily as he fought to escape the monsters behind his eyelids. Drenched as much in fear as he was in sweat, he would wipe the moisture from his brow wearily, wondering why he could never realize that the monsters weren't there before he was forced to yell himself awake. Why did it always seem so real?

The distorted smiles, the dark corners, the angry sphinx, the bloodthirsty Inferi, the murderers and psychos, the Dark Lord... particularly his disappointed parents, screaming at him that he was wrong, a horrible child, undeserving of their love. They chased him in his sleep almost every night but they were not real; _he_ was real. He had power over them and should've been able to escape, to force them to leave him in peace. But he could not, because he was always too afraid. As it is with dreams, he never realized that he had the ability to wish it all away, and so he woke up screaming every time, sweat streaming from his brow without restraint.

"It's not real," he would whisper, trying to reassure himself, "it's not real, none of it's real."

Sometimes when he was younger, his brother would wake up too, and Sirius would help him feel better. He would hold him and tell him that everything was alright, that it was all lies. That nothing would ever go wrong.

Then they began to grow apart, and he was always alone. He still had nightmares, and he still woke up screaming, but more often than not he managed to stifle the noise in time. Sometimes he knew, just _knew_ that Sirius was awake, but never again did his brother come into his room to comfort him. Not anymore. They'd chosen their sides.

"None of it is real. The darkness isn't real." But it was. As he grew up he came to understand this.

He used to have nightmares. But he made them go away.

He became a Death Eater and got the Dark Mark imprinted forever on his left forearm, and then, _then..._ he was the nightmare. He was what people were afraid of, he learned this. He learned that it was possible to befriend the devil, if only you worked hard enough. He learned that you could master your fear simply by causing others to fear you. Others who were unworthy, who were your enemies.

He ignored his brother's anger, knowing that Sirius had to be wrong. The traitor just didn't understand the ways of the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters. He refused even to acknowledge Regulus with their usual curt nod, so furious was he at his brother for going so far, for being so "soft" as he called it. They got into a few fights when they came upon one another at Hogwarts in their final years. Slytherins and Gryffindors tended to do that. They even dueled once. But of all their altercations, which were mainly physical, there was only one that could be considered an actual _conversation. _It was to be their last, and it was the only time that his brother actually attempted to talk him out of his mistakes.

Sirius searched for him when he found out. This surprised Regulus. What surprised him more was that his brother actually found him. It was night in London.

"You can't do this, Regulus! They're killers! What the hell do you think they'll _ever_ do for you? For _anyone?_"

"Why the hell should you care? You never did."

"Of course I did, you idiot, you just wouldn't listen." Sirius spoke with effort, as if it were painful to admit. "I'm trying to _help_ you, Reg. This can't be what you are."

"You don't even know me anymore. You don't have _any idea_ what I am."

"You're just fucking afraid."

"Of what?" Regulus laughed scornfully. "A bunch of mudbloods?"

"Don't _ever_ say that word," Sirius said quietly, gritting his teeth.

"Who are _you_ to tell me that?"

There was a long silence. Regulus was turning to leave when Sirius' agitated voice called out from behind him. "So you're willing to die for a maniac? Willing to let thousands—_millions_—of _innocent people_ die or be enslaved and suppressed? He's a serial killer, Regulus. He is _insane_."

"He has a point," Regulus replied coolly, turning back to him and choosing to ignore his meaningless insults. "They're not the same as us, and you know it. It's for a better world. The greater good."

Sirius laughed humorlessly; it was an incredulous, inane laugh. "The greater good. You—I can't even begin to tell you how wrong that is. How _sick_." There was a long pause during which he visibly fought whatever impulses he had to beat his younger brother to a pulp. Regulus refused to reply, and Sirius was livid. He looked as though every muscle in his body was tensed; his hands had curled into fists and his jaw was working rapidly. But he managed to compose himself after a moment, and then he was as detached as he'd ever been. "You're fucking up, Regulus," he said slowly, darkly. "_Royally fucking up_."

"I'd say the same about you," he replied nonchalantly, smiling, "and if you hadn't noticed, so would a lot of other people."

Sirius scoffed, glaring at him with loathing and disgust. He hated his brother's carelessly cool tone, his complete disregard for common sense and humanity. He hated him for being so bloody fucking _stupid_. But most of all he hated him because there was nothing that he could do or say to make him understand any of this. "_Go to hell_." And with a _crack_ he was gone.

Regulus never spoke to him again.

It was 1979—almost two years later—when he finally realized the full extent of the pain and suffering that the Dark Lord was causing, the horrible nature of it all. It was 1979 by the time it occurred to Regulus that his big brother, the infamous traitor Sirius Black, could actually be _right_. He could only hope that it wasn't too late to do something about it.


	3. Redemption

He was disgusted by what the Dark Lord would do "for the greater good." It wasn't what he had thought. None of it. All of his life he had seen the world a certain way, and soon after his eighteenth birthday, it had all come crashing down on him. He had always thought that the enemy was the mudbloods and half-breeds and blood traitors; the impure, the unworthy. But _he _was the true enemy, _they_ were. The Death Eaters and their cruel Dark Lord, who did things for their own greater good but not for anyone else's.

_Sirius was right._

Voldemort made Kreacher go through unwarranted suffering just for a test that he needn't have performed. The poor house elf was forced to drink all of the cursed potion and left to die in that dreadful place.

When Regulus found out about this, the truth dawned on him. The Dark Lord tortured others for the fun of it and made people grovel at his feet. He could believe in a "greater good" and he could say that it was for purification, but it wasn't; it was for power and suffering. Regulus remembered what he had said two years prior; there was a bad person "just beneath the surface of every good one." But this statement was incorrect; you couldn't define someone as a good or bad person. Everyone had characteristics that were both beautiful and ugly, no matter who they were or where they came from. He had realized, however, that the Dark Lord was an exception to this rule. He was ugly through and through, and he had a black heart to prove it. He would pay for what he did, what he was doing, to the world. It was horribly twisted and intricately planned so that none could betray him without soon regretting it.

But he didn't regret it. Tom Riddle was a terrible man, and Regulus had become dedicated to bringing about his end. He would get his revenge and his redemption, and he didn't care if he died at the hands of this new enemy, whom he had so long thought was a friend. As long as he died fighting for what he believed in and for what he knew was right.

The Dark Lord had been careless and had given himself away. When Kreacher told him about the Horcrux, Regulus knew what he had to do.

It was not very difficult to get into the cave. The barbaric rituals didn't impress him or scare him; they only filled him with disgust. As he made his way across the water, all that he could think was that it was fitting. All of it, so cold and dead, the epitome of the Dark Lord. He hated what he had done and what he had believed in; he hated the tattoo on his left forearm. But he was getting revenge now, for Kreacher and for all of the people that the Dark Lord had mistreated. No matter what the cause was that kind of treachery could never be justified.

As Regulus and his house elf drew closer to the island and the emerald potion, thoughts of redemption filled his head...

He would not allow his elf to drink the potion and go through all of the pain again. He had planned everything beforehand, and he was set on his decision. He had to do it.

He drank. He drank and drank and drank. Sorrow and regret pooled in his stomach. His brother, whom he had forgotten and rejected. Sirius. Who rarely had nightmares, who was afraid of so little while Regulus was afraid of so much. Of rejection, of darkness, of the Dark Lord, of death. Regulus was a coward, a pitiful excuse for a man.

Kreacher's voice called to him; he had to drink more. Kreacher was sorry, he said he had to do it. And so Regulus drank. The agony of others. Screams pierced his ears as he cursed an innocent woman, one who had deserved neither the pain nor the loss that she had suffered. _I'm sorry! So, so sorry. No, I won't see anymore. Don't make me. Don't make me!_

Kreacher forced him to drink. The world was collapsing over him and he was lost in his childhood nightmares again, only this time they were ten times worse. Around him he saw people who had lost so much, all for the _greater good_, of course. People he had hated needlessly, who had done nothing to deserve their fates. A part of him knew he wasn't dreaming but—_please let me wake up. I didn't know! I never meant for this to happen! I never meant—_

"Master, you must drink! You have to drink the rest!" The cursed cup was brought to his mouth and he drank, though it was the last thing that he wanted to do. He was filled with boundless sorrow. He felt the suffering, the hate, the _darkness. _He wanted to die. It was like he'd consumed all of the bad feelings in the world with the potion. He needed to wash them out. He needed water. Oh, Merlin, he was so thirsty...

_It's not real._

So very thirsty...

They were in almost absolute darkness.

"Kreacher, take the locket, go. Remember what I said..." he could not finish. He was drained. Nightmare. He was living a nightmare. And he would not ever wake up.

He gazed longingly in the direction of the lake, knowing what creatures waited in its depths. _Inferi_. Fear seized him and made his mouth feel drier, if that were possible. Kreacher had told him earlier that he'd been just as thirsty, and had fearfully explained what had happened when he had tried to drink from the lake...

"Master?" Kreacher snapped him out of his trance. When he looked up he saw that the cursed locket was in the elf's bony hand. He had already placed the duplicate with the note in the basin, for which Regulus was eternally grateful. He was too exhausted and distracted by thirst to do it himself.

"Thank you, Kreacher. For all of your help. Now please... please leave, take the locket with you, and destroy it! Do _whatever_ you can to... to break it apart. Anything you can think of. And remember, don't..." he looked again at the lake, at the water, so much _water_ there, but he had to finish, "...don't tell Walburga."

His house elf looked desperately sad. "But Kreacher cannot leave Master. Kreacher must protect Master!"

"That's an _order_, Kreacher... you have to go. I'm not... coming with you." He raised his wand slowly, sending waves of golden light outward to replace the eerie emerald glow that the potion had emanated.

"Kreacher will do it, Master," he said finally, resigned, "Kreacher will destroy the locket. Kreacher will not tell Walburga."

His house elf, the elf that he had known for all of the eighteen years of his life, gave him one last sorrowful, longing, desperate look.

"Go!"

"Goodbye, brave Regulus, brave Master."

_Crack._

Intense relief surged through him at the knowledge that the locket was gone. He had done it. He had stolen the Horcrux, and it would be destroyed! For a moment he was weightless with the knowledge that he had done something to contribute to the Dark Lord's downfall. For a moment he felt endless gratitude toward poor Kreacher, who had been through so much for him. He already missed his company, believe it or not.

But then the thirst came back. So very, very thirsty...

The darkness pressed in on him when he put out the light. He fought to ignore it, thinking only of summoning water, drinking water, tasting water... He pointed his wand at the goblet. "_Aguamenti_." And it filled with water, yes, _water_, clear _water_, and fumbling, he lifted it to his lips...

It was gone. _Shit._

"_Aguamenti!_" he exclaimed, almost dropping his wand in the process. Again he brought the goblet to his mouth and tilted it, and again the water had disappeared. _Part of the trap,_ a part of him thought, but still he jabbed his wand into the goblet. "_AGUAMENTI!" _He watched as it drained out of a nonexistent hole in the bottom. But he had to drink. Thirst burned in his throat more powerfully than he had ever felt before.

_Water, water, water..._

He began to stumble down toward the shore, thinking only of the feeling of moisture in his throat. He was sure he would die of dehydration before he was pulled into the lake by the Inferi. He forget all fears, he forgot the trap, he forgot even the locket; he knew only that he was getting closer, closer. He ignored the bruises forming on his knees from colliding with the sharp rock as he kneeled. He reached out with the goblet blindly as he leaned down and it broke the still surface of the lake; then he was lifting it up, and there was water, ice cold, real _water_ in the goblet, spilling over onto his hand!

He almost laughed as he brought it to his lips, gulping down every last drop, so distracted by the wonderful drink that at first he didn't notice the hands pulling at his robes.

A woman was grasping at his arm, but she wasn't alive; her face was gaunt, her hair was clumped and her limbs were shriveled. She had empty, unseeing eyes and was blindly pulling him toward the lake.

Shaking slightly, Regulus hit her across the face and kicked her in the chest, sending her flying back into the water. But there were so many more after her. The surface was no longer flat and calm; it looked as though it were boiling. They were coming for him, emerging from the lake, all of them dead, wanting only to kill the living. _Oh. So that's what they look like._

They were worse than his nightmares.

Regulus stumbled backward, scrabbling up the rocky slope with effort, trying to get a good grip on his wand. He wasn't thirsty anymore. He was bleeding in multiple places but he didn't feel a thing. They were creeping out of the water, skin pulled tight over their faces but hanging loosely from their limbs. The smell was horrid. He couldn't think. He held the last spot of light in the middle of the cave, and it was growing smaller with the encroaching darkness. He was alone, and no one was there to comfort or protect him.

He was ready to face death, but that didn't take away his fear.

"It's not real," he whispered to himself, and he thought of Sirius and his parents, both of whom he had eventually betrayed. Oh, how foolish his mother and father were, supporting the Dark Lord and knowing next to nothing about what treachery he would commit to reach his ends...

The Inferi were climbing toward him and would reach him in only a moment. Regulus was a boy again, lost in the depths of his nightmares. "It's not real. None of it is real." A whisper in the midst of silence and the dripping of water from flesh.

Lifeless, cold, decaying arms reached toward him, knowing only that because he was alive and because he was not the Dark Lord, he was the enemy and he had to die. For a moment he stood frozen on the spot, paralyzed with fear. It was only when their fingertips began to reach him that he began to fight. He would go down fighting, as Sirius would've done. Suddenly he had his energy back.

He looked at the Inferi crowding around him and was filled with rage. They thought _he_ was the enemy, but their master was the true enemy. And Voldemort should've been dead long ago. Regulus spun, elbowing one in the face as he kicked another in the stomach. And then he sent an endless stream of damaging magic at his attackers, from hexes to spells to curses to charms, anything and everything that he knew. It was endlessly satisfying. This was what he had prepared for, he realized faintly. This was why he had gone through school. To fight against the enemy, who he now understood to be those he had supported for so long.

As the Inferi were flung backward Regulus smiled grimly, glad that he could give one last good fight before the end. It was gratifying to push them back, even though more would come in a second, constantly pulling at him. Even though he knew that there were too many, that he could not escape.

His fingers were wound so tightly around his wand that his knuckles had turned white and his fingernails were digging deep into his palm. _It won't go away, _he thought grimly. _This is real, and everything will certainly not be alright._

The light of his spells illuminated their deformed faces in shades of red and blue and green. He was afraid, more afraid than he'd ever been in his life. But he would not give up; he would not allow himself to be trapped in the dark. Not yet, anyway.

_I was a coward_

Even if that meant that he had to see the crowds of dead reaching for him until he died

_I'm not afraid of you_

kicking and lashing out with his fists, stunning and petrifying, pushing back the Inferi around him

_as Sirius would've done_

fighting away nightmares, even at his end

_this is the end, _he realized, but with a kind of satisfaction,

because he was fighting for what he believed in and that was enough

and with dismay he felt his wand break, and darkness filled every corner

_darkness_

being suffocated by black death around him

_but I won, in some sick way_

stumbling over cold rock that was stabbing him with pain and showering him with bruises

_bastard will get what he deserves_

and being pulled into the water by dead hands; ice cold, black water, filled with fear

_Kreacher called me brave_

and he remembered that someone had once said bravery was not a lack of fear, but acting in spite of it

_I'm brave enough_

a last breath of cool air flooding his lungs, the satisfying _smack_ of his fist into someone's slack jaw

_Sirius is brave_

beneath the surface, surrounded by arms and legs and death and decay and _ice cold water_

_I'm sorry, Sirius_

and it occurred to him, _fighting for the greater good_, for the good in everyone

refusing to give up, still struggling to escape the cold grasp of the Inferi, dragging him deeper into darkness

_fighting for the innocent people, like Sirius said_

needing to _breathe, _cold water piercing his lungs, pain, so much _pain_

_fighting fear_

too much water, breathing water, hating water he had loved just minutes earlier

_redeemed_

unable to struggle anymore, but all was not lost, he had played his part

_fought to the end..._

the air, the life, the pain, the _fear_, fading out

_...as Sirius would've done_

and in his last conscious moment Regulus Black was not afraid anymore; he was content

within minutes he was gone

and the Inferi released him, for he was no longer the enemy


End file.
